When I’m here I feel like I can’t breathe
which is terribly ironic
because all there is, is space
open space, open fields, open roads
roads to nowhere because that’s where we’re going
Nowhere.

I used to call it the “Dead end city”
No interstate or truck stops
no famous cafe or landmarks
the further you drove the more isolated you got
Until you reach the end
A maze of weeds, A land of beach and cold ocean waves
where the tide pulls in and out and the sun sets over the water

It’s the kind of place people talk about heading for the weekend
To see a nice sunset, to be surrounded in the tranquility
but then they leave
they go back to their cities, their apartments, their lives with a coffee shop down every block
their lives in a place where they don’t have to go to the next town over just for school, where the grocery store is right next door, where everything the could need is right next door,
and they leave us here.

They leave us here, trapped,
we all talk about leaving someday, how we’ll shake the dust off our feet
and find ourselves. How we’ll become something, something new, something better.
Maybe some of us will. Maybe we’ll go to college, maybe we’ll live a dream.If we all seem to live, why do they all come back? They were they born here into families
who’ve based their lives here, there were days when they left and the swore they would get out but they always came back.

Always back to the dead end city.